Songs and Ballads of the Southern People: 1861-1865 |
SONGS AND BALLADS
OF THE
SOUTHERN PEOPLE. 1861-1865. COLLECTED AND EDITED
BY
FRANK MOORE. NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET.
1886. Copyright, 1886,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved.
NOTE TO READERS. This collection has been made with the view of preserving in permanent form the opinions and sentiments of the Southern people, as embodied in their Songs and Ballads of 1861-1865; which, better than any other medium, exhibit the temper of the times and popular feeling. The historical value of the productions is admitted. Age will not impair it. The editor has endeavored to give the best of the inspirations. A desire to announce the authorship of the pieces has been gratified in most instances. Where requests have been made not to give names and places and circumstances, by whom, and where they have been written, they have been regarded, the spirit, meaning and intent not being affected, nor in the least abated by such a course. To those who have assisted in collecting, the editor returns his thanks. After this volume reaches those who are interested, should any of them desire to correct mistakes that may have crept into it, he will be glad to make the changes required. Should any one, into whose hands the volume may fall, know of copies of songs or ballads, or of letters and incidents upon which such are founded—songs and ballads, letters or incidents not already collected in book form—the editor will be glad to be advised, that means may be taken for their permanent preservation, which he is using every endeavor to secure. A postal card, giving name and residence, addressed to him, in the care of his publishers, D. Appleton and Company, New York City, will receive immediate attention. The essence of history exists in its songs. Those that are carried in the memory are earliest forgotten. It is a praiseworthy plan that saves all. Will those who “know them by heart,” and have “sung them in camp and in battle,” help to rescue them from oblivion? Frank Moore. New York, January, 1886.
SONGS OF THE SOUTHERN PEOPLE. A POEM FOR THE TIMES. BY JOHN R. THOMPSON. Who talks of Coercion? Who dares to deny
A resolute people their right to be free?
Let him blot out forever one star from the sky,
Or curb with his fetter one wave of the sea.
Who prates of Coercion? Can love be restored
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell;
Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword,
Or good-will among men be established by shell?
Shame! shame that the statesman and trickster, forsooth,
Should have for a crisis no other recourse,
Beneath the fair day-spring of Light and of Truth,
Than the old brutum fulmen of Tyranny,—Force.
From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood, and Hate slink away;
From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains;
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day,
And would ravage the land which his presence profanes.
Could you conquer us, Men of the North, could you bring
Desolation and death on our homes as a flood;
Can you hope the pure lily, Affection, will spring
From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood?
Could you brand us as villeins and serfs, know ye not
What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar?
How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot;
How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar!
But ’twere well to remember this land of the sun
Is a nutrix leonum, and suckles a race
Strong-armed, lion-hearted, and banded as one,
Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace.
And well may the schemers in office beware
The swift retribution that waits upon crime,
When the lion, Resistance, shall leap from his lair,
With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime.
Once, men of the North, we were brothers, and still,
Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends;
Nor join in a conflict accurst, that must fill
With ruin the country on which it descends.
But if smitten with blindness, and mad with the rage
The gods give to all whom they wished to destroy,
You would act a new Iliad to darken the age,
With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy:
If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries,
When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore,
You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes
Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar:
If there be to your malice no limit imposed,
And your reckless design is to rule with the rod
The men upon whom you have already closed
Our goodly domain and the temples of God:
To the breeze then your banner dishonored unfold,
And at once let the tocsin be sounded afar;
We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles the Bold,
With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war!
For the courage that clings to our soil, ever bright,
Shall catch inspiration from turf and from tide;
Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight,
With the smile of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride;
And the bugle its echoes shall send through the past,
In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain;
While the sods of King’s Mountain shall heave at the blast,
And give up its heroes to glory again.
Charleston Mercury. |
ETHNOGENESIS. BY HENRY TIMROD.[1] | I. | Hath not the morning dawned with added light?
And will not evening call another star
Out of the infinite regions of the night,
To mark this day in heaven? At last we are
A nation among nations; and the world
Shall soon behold in many a distant part
Another flag unfurled!
Now, come what may, whose favor need we court?
And, under God, whose thunder need we fear?
Thank him who placed us here
Beneath so kind a sky—the very sun
Takes part with us; and on our errands run
All breezes of the ocean; dew and rain
Do noiseless battle for us; and the year
And all the gentle daughters in her train
March in our ranks, and in our service wield
Long spears of golden grain!
A yellow blossom as her fairy shield
June flings our azure banner to the wind,
While in the order of their birth
Her sisters pass, and many an ample field
Grows white beneath their steps, till now behold
Its endless sheets unfold
The snow of Southern summers! Let the earth
Rejoice! beneath those fleeces soft and warm
Our happy land shall sleep
In a repose as deep
As if we lay intrenched behind
Whole leagues of Russian ice and Arctic storm! | | | | II. | And what, if mad with wrongs themselves have wrought,
In their own treachery caught,
By their own fears made bold,
And leagued with him of old,
Who long since in the limits of the North
Set up his evil throne, and warred with God—
What if, both mad and blinded in their rage,
Our foes should fling us down their mortal gage,
And with a hostile step profane our sod!
We shall not shrink, my brothers, but go forth
To meet them, marshaled by the Lord of Hosts,
And overshadowed by the mighty ghosts
Of Moultrie and of Eutaw—who shall foil
Auxiliars such as these? Nor these alone,
But every stock and stone
Shall help us; but the very soil,
And all the generous wealth it gives to toil,
And all for which we love our noble land,
Shall fight beside, and through us, sea and strand,
The heart of woman, and her hand,
Tree, fruit, and flower, and every influence
Gentle or grave or grand.
The winds in our defense
Shall seem to blow; to us the hills shall lend
Their firmness and their calm;
And in our stiffened sinews we shall blend
The strength of pine and palm! | | | | III. | Look where we will, we can not find a ground
For any mournful song:
Call up the clashing elements around,
And test the right and wrong!
On one side, pledges broken, creeds that lie,
Religion sunk in vague philosophy,
Empty professions, pharisaic leaven,
Souls that would sell their birthright in the sky,
Philanthropists who pass the beggar by,
And laws which controvert the laws of Heaven.
And, on the other—first, a righteous cause!
Then, honor without flaws,
Truth, Bible reverence, charitable wealth,
And for the poor and humble, laws which give,
Not the mean right to buy the right to live,
But life, and home, and health.
To doubt the issue were distrust in God!
If in his Providence he hath decreed
That to the peace for which we pray,
Through the Red Sea of War must lie our way,
Doubt not, O brothers, we shall find at need
A Moses with his rod! | | | | IV. | But let our fears—if fears we have—be still,
And turn us to the future! Could we climb
Some Alp in thought, and view the coming time,
We should indeed behold a sight to fill
Our eyes with happy tears!
Not for the glories which a hundred years
Shall bring us; not for lands from sea to sea,
And wealth, and power, and peace, though these shall be;
But for the distant peoples we shall bless,
And the hushed murmurs of a world’s distress:
For, to give food and clothing to the poor,
The whole sad planet o’er,
And save from crime its humblest human door,
Our mission is! The hour is not yet ripe
When all shall see it, but behold the type
Of what we are and shall be to the world,
In our own grand and genial Gulf stream furled,
Which through the vast and colder ocean pours
Its waters, so that far-off Arctic shores
May sometimes catch upon the softened breeze
Strange tropic warmth and hints of summer seas. |
THE SOUTHERN CROSS. BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER. Air—The Star Spangled Banner. Oh, say, can you see, through the gloom and the storm,
More bright for the darkness, that pure constellation?
Like the symbol of love and redemption its form,
As it points to the haven of hope for the nation.
How radiant, each star, as the beacon afar,
Giving promise of peace, or assurance in war;
’Tis the Cross of the South, which shall ever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
How peaceful and blest was America’s soil,
Till betrayed by the guile of the Puritan demon,
Which lurks under virtue, and springs from its coil
To fasten its fangs in the life-blood of freemen.
Then loudly appeal, to each heart that can feel,
And crush the foul viper ’neath Liberty’s heel!
And the Cross of the South shall forever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
’Tis the emblem of peace, ’tis the day-star of hope,
Like the sacred Labarum, which guided the Roman;
From the shores of the Gulf to the Delaware’s slope,
’Tis the trust of the free, and the terror of foemen.
Fling its folds to the air, while we boldly declare
The rights we demand, or the deeds that we dare;
And the Cross of the South shall forever remain,
To light us to Freedom and Glory again!
But if peace should be hopeless, and justice denied,
And war’s bloody vulture should flap his black pinions,
Then gladly to arms! while we hurl in our pride,
Defiance to tyrants, and death to their minions,
With our front to the field, swearing never to yield,
Or return, like the Spartan, in death on our shield;
And the Cross of the South shall triumphantly wave
As the flag of the Free, or the pall of the brave.
Southern Literary Messenger. |
HARP OF THE SOUTH, AWAKE! BY J. M. KILGOUR. Harp of the South, awake!
From every golden wire,
Let the voice of thy power go forth,
Like the rush of a prairie fire;
With the rush and the rhythm of a power
That dares a freeman’s grave,
Rather than live to wear
The chains of a truckling slave.
Harp of the South, awake!
Thy sons are aroused at last,
And their legions are gathering now,
To the sound of the trumpet blast;
To the scream of the piercing fife,
And the beat of the rolling drum,
From mountain, and hill, and plain,
And field, and town, they come.
Harp of the South, awake!
Their banners are on the breeze;
Tell the world how vain the thought
To subdue such men as these,
With hero hearts that beat,
To the throbs of the spirit-flame,
Which will kindle their battle-fires
In freedom’s holy name.
Harp of the South, awake!
But not to sing of love,
In shady forest-bower,
Or fragrant orange grove;
Oh, no, but thy song must be
The wrath of the battle crash,
Inscribed on the cloud of war,
With the pen of its lightning flash.
Harp of the South, awake!
And strike the strains once more,
Which nerved thy heroes’ hearts
In the glorious days of yore;
Which gave a giant’s strength
To the arm of Marion,
Of Sumter, Morgan, Lee,
And your own great Washington.
Harp of the South, awake!
Your freedom’s angel calls,
In the laugh of the rippling rills,
And the roar of the waterfalls.
See how she bends to hear,
As she walks the valleys through,
And along the mountain tops,
In robes of gold and blue.
Harp of the South, awake!
The proud, the full-soul’d South—
With the dusk of her flashing eyes,
And the lure of her rosy mouth—
With love, or pride, or wrath,
Thrilling her noble form,
As she smiles like a summer sky,
Or frowns like a summer storm!
Harp of the South, awake!
Though the soldier’s beaming tear
May fall on thy trembling strings,
As he breathes his farewell prayer;
Yet, tell him how to die
On the bloody battle-field,
Rather than to her foes
The gallant South should yield.[2] |
ARISE. BY C. G. POYNAS. Carolinians! who inherit
Blood which flowed in patriot veins!
Rouse ye from lethargic slumber,
Rouse and fling away your chains!
From the mountain to the seaboard,
Let the cry be—Up! Arise!
Throw our pure Palmetto banner
Proudly upward to the skies.
Fling it out! its lone star beaming
Brightly to the nation’s gaze;
Lo! another star arises!
Quickly, proudly it emblaze!
Yet another! Bid it welcome
With a hearty “three times three”;
Send it forth, on boom of cannon,
Southern men will dare be free.
Faster than the cross of battle
Summoned rude Clan Alpine’s host,
Flash the news from sea to mountain—
Back from mountain to the coast!
On the lightning’s wing it fleeth,
Scares the eagle in his flight,
As his keen eye sees arising
Glory, yet shall daze his sight!
Cease the triumph—days of darkness
Loom upon us from afar:
Can a woman’s voice for battle
Ring the fatal note of war?
Yes—when we have borne aggression
Till submission is disgrace—
Southern women call for action;
Ready would the danger face!
Yes, in many a matron’s bosom
Burns the Spartan spirit now;
From the maiden’s eye it flashes,
Glows upon her snowy brow;
E’en our infants in their prattle
Urge us on to risk our all—
“Would we leave them, as a blessing.
The oppressor’s hateful thrall?”
No!—then up, true-hearted Southrons,
Like bold “giants nerved by wine”;
Never fear! The cause is holy—
It is sacred—yea, divine!
For the Lord of Hosts is with us,
It is He has cast our lot;
Blest our homes—from lordly mansion
To the humblest negro cot.
God of battles! hear our cry—
Give us nerve to do or die! |
THE STAR OF THE WEST. I wish I was in de land o’ cotton,
Old times dair ain’t not forgotten—
Look away, etc.
In Dixie land whar I was born in,
Early on one frosty mornin’—
Look away, etc.
Chorus—Den I wish I was in Dixie.
In Dixie land dat frosty mornin’,
Jis ’bout de time de day was dawnin’,
Look away, etc.
De signal fire from de east bin roarin’,
Rouse up, Dixie, no more snorin’—
Look away, etc.—
Den I wish I was in Dixie.
Dat rocket high a blazing in de sky,
’Tis de sign dat de snobbies am comin’ up nigh—
Look away, etc.
Dey bin braggin’ long, if we dare to shoot a shot,
Dey comin’ up strong and dey’ll send us all to pot.
Fire away, fire away, lads in gray.
Den I wish I was in Dixie.
Charleston Mercury. |
FAREWELL TO BROTHER JONATHAN. BY “CAROLINE.” Farewell! we must part; we have turned from the land
Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand,
Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant,
And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt;
Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend—
Still the craftiest foe, ’neath the guise of a friend;
Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch,
Yet could never believe he could goad them too much;
Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin,
Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in;
The mote in our eye so enormous has grown,
That he never perceives there’s a beam in his own.
O Jonathan, Jonathan! vassal of pelf,
Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self,
Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast,
But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast.
In vain did your country appeal to you then,
You coldly refused her your money and men;
Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars,
And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the
Stars!
Then our generous blood was as water poured forth,
And the sons of the South were the shields of the North;
Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o’er,
Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore!
Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong,
But we clung to your side with affection so strong,
That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke
All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke.
We are tired of contest for what is our own,
We are sick of a strife that could never be done;
Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark,
Not Prometheus’s self could rekindle the spark.
O Jonathan, Jonathan! deadly the sin
Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin;
And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives
And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives!
Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil,
Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil;
The balm of our air brings the health to your cheek,
And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak.
O brother! beware how you seek us again,
Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain;
That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit;
We may fall—we may perish—but never submit!
The pathway that leads to the Pharisee’s door
We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more;
Preferring to turn, with the Publican’s faith,
To the path through the valley and shadow of death! |
THE UNIFORM OF GRAY. BY EVAN ELBERT. The Briton boasts his coat of red,
With lace and spangles decked;
In garb of green the French are seen,
With gaudy colors flecked;
The Yankees strut in dingy blue,
And epaulets display;
Our Southern girls more proudly view
The uniform of gray.
That dress is worn by gallant hearts
Who every foe defy,
Who stalwart stand, with battle-brand,
To conquer or to die!
They fight for freedom, hope and home,
And honor’s voice obey,
And proudly wear where’er they roam
The uniform of gray.
What though ’tis stained with crimson hues,
And dim with dust and smoke,
By bullets torn, and rent and shorn
By many a hostile stroke;
The march, the camp, the bivouac,
The onset and the fray
But only serve more dear to make
The uniform of gray.
When wild war’s tiger-strife is past,
And liberty restored;
When independence reigns at last,
By valor’s arm secured;
The South will stand, erect and grand,
And loftiest honors pay
To those who bore her flag, and wore
The uniform of gray.
And woman’s love, man’s best reward,
Shall cluster round their path,
And soothe and cheer the volunteer
Who dared the foeman’s wrath.
Bright wreaths she’ll bring, and roses fling
Around his triumph-way,
And long in song thy fame prolong
Old uniform of gray. |
“WE CONQUER OR DIE.” BY JAMES PIERPONT. The war drum is beating, prepare for the fight,
The stern bigot Northman exults in his might,
Gird on your bright weapons, your foemen are nigh;
Let this be our watchword, “We conquer or die!”
The trumpet is sounding from mountain to shore,
Your swords and your lances must slumber no more,
Fling forth to the sunlight your banner on high,
Inscribed with the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
March to the battlefield, there do or dare,
With shoulder to shoulder, all danger to share,
And let your proud watchword ring up to the sky,
Till the blue arch re-echoes “We conquer or die!”
Press forward undaunted, nor think of retreat,
The enemy’s host on the threshold to meet;
Strike firm till the foeman before you shall fly,
Appalled by the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
Go forth in the pathway our forefathers trod;
We, too, fight for freedom—our Captain is God;
Their blood in our veins, with their honor we vie,
Theirs, too, was the watchword, “We conquer or die!”
We strike for the South—mountain, valley and plain—
For the South we will conquer again and again;
Her day of salvation and triumph is nigh,
Ours, then, be the watchword, “We conquer or die!” |
SONS OF FREEDOM. BY NANNY GRAY. Sons of freedom, on to glory
Go, where brave men do or die,
Let your names in future story
Gladden every patriot’s eye;
’Tis your country calls you, hasten!
Backward hurl the invading foe;
Freemen never think of danger,—
To the glorious battle go!
Oh! remember gallant Jackson,
Single-handed in the fight,
Death-blows dealt the fierce marauder,
For his liberty and right;
Tho’ he fell beneath their thousands,
Who that covets not his fame?
Grand and glorious, brave and noble,
Henceforth shall be Jackson’s name.
Sons of freedom, can you linger
When you hear the battle’s roar,
Fondly dallying with your pleasures
When the foe is at your door?
Never! no! we fear no idlers,
“Death or freedom”’s now the cry,
’Till the stars and bars, triumphant,
Spread their folds to every eye.
Richmond Whig. |
“CALL ALL! CALL ALL!” BY “GEORGIA.” Whoop! the Doodles have broken loose,
Roaring round like the very deuce!
Lice of Egypt, a hungry pack,—
After ’em, boys, and drive ’em back.
Bull-dog, terrier, cur, and fice,
Back to the beggarly land of ice;
Worry ’em, bite ’em, scratch and tear
Everybody and everywhere.
Old Kentucky is caved from under,
Tennessee is split asunder,
Alabama awaits attack,
And Georgia bristles up her back.
Old John Brown is dead and gone!
Still his spirit is marching on,—
Lantern-jawed, and legs, my boys,
Long as an ape’s from Illinois!
Want a weapon? Gather a brick,
Club or cudgel, or stone or stick;
Anything with a blade or butt,
Anything that can cleave or cut.
Anything heavy, or hard, or keen!
Any sort of slaying machine!
Anything with a willing mind,
And the steady arm of a man behind.
Want a weapon? Why, capture one!
Every Doodle has got a gun,
Belt, and bayonet, bright and new;
Kill a Doodle, and capture two!
Shoulder to shoulder, son and sire!
All, call all! to the feast of fire!
Mother and maiden, and child and slave,
A common triumph or a single grave.
Rockingham, Va., Register. |
THE ORDERED AWAY. Dedicated to the Oglethorpe and Walker Light Infantries. BY MRS. J. J. JACOBUS. At the end of each street, a banner we meet,
The people all march in a mass,
But quickly aside, they step back with pride,
To let the brave companies pass.
The streets are dense filled, but the laughter is still’d—
The crowd is all going one way;
Their cheeks are blanched white, but they smile as they light
Lift their hats to the—Ordered away.
They smile while the dart deeply pierces their heart,
But each eye flashes back the war-glance,
As they watch the brave file march up with a smile,
’Neath their flag—with their muskets and lance;
The cannon’s loud roar vibrates on the shore,
But the people are quiet to-day,
As, startled, they see how fearless and free
March the companies—Ordered away.
Not a quiver or gleam of fear can be seen,
Though they go to meet death in disguise;
For the hot air is filled with poison distilled
’Neath the rays of fair Florida’s skies.
Hark! the drum and fife awake to new life
The soldiers who—“Can’t get away;”
Who wish, as they wave their hats to the brave,
That they were the—Ordered away.
As our parting grows near, let us quell back the tear,
Let our smiles shine as bright as of yore;
Let us stand with the mass, salute as they pass,
And weep when we see them no more.
Let no tear-drop or sigh dim the light of our eye,
Or move from our lips, as they say—
While waving our hand to a brave little band—
Good-by to the—Ordered away.
Let them go, in God’s name, in defense of their fame,
Brave death at the cannon’s wide mouth;
Let them honor and save the land of the brave,
Plant Freedom’s bright flag in the South.
Let them go! While we weep, and lone vigils keep,
We will bless them, and fervently pray
To the God whom we trust, for our cause firm but just,
And our loved ones—the Ordered away.
When fierce battles storm, we will rise up each morn,
Teach our young sons the saber to wield:
Should their brave fathers die, we will arm them to fly
And fill up the gap in the field.
Then, fathers and brothers, fond husbands and lovers,
March! march bravely on! We will stay,
Alone in our sorrow, to pray on each morrow
For our loved ones—the Ordered away.
Augusta, Ga., April 2, 1861. |
THE MARTYR OF ALEXANDRIA. BY JAMES W. SIMMONS. Revealed, as in a lightning flash,
A Hero stood!
The invading foe, the trumpet’s crash,
Set up his blood!
High o’er the sacred pile that bends
Those forms above,
Thy Star, O Freedom! brightly blends
Its rays with Love.
The banner of a mighty race
Serenely there
Unfurls—the genius of the place,
And haunted air!
A vow is registered in heaven—
Patriot! ’twas thine
To guard those matchless colors, given
By hand divine.
Jackson! thy spirit may not hear
The wail ascend!
A nation bends above thy bier,
And mourns its friend.
Thy example is thy monument;
In organ tones
Thy name resounds, with glory blent,
Prouder than thrones!
And they whose loss has been our gain—
A People’s care
Shall win their hearts from pain,
And wipe the tear.
When time shall set the captive free,
Now scathed by wrath,
Heirs of his immortality,
Bright be their path.
Indianola, Texas. |
DIXIE. Southrons, hear your Country call you! BY ALBERT PIKE. Southrons, hear your Country call you!
Up! lest worse than death befall you!
To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!
Lo! all the beacon-fires are lighted,
Let all hearts be now united!
To arms! To arms! To arms! in Dixie!
Advance the flag of Dixie!
Hurrah! hurrah!
For Dixie’s land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
To arms! To arms!
And conquer peace for Dixie!
Hear the Northern thunders mutter!
Northern flags in South wind flutter;
To arms, etc.,
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Fear no danger! Shun no labor!
Lift up rifle, pike, and saber!
To arms, etc.
Shoulder pressing close to shoulder,
Let the odds make each heart bolder!
To arms, etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
How the South’s great heart rejoices,
At your cannons’ ringing voices;
To arms! etc.
For faith betrayed and pledges broken,
Wrongs inflicted, insults spoken;
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Strong as lions, swift as eagles,
Back to their kennels hunt these beagles;
To arms! etc.
Cut the unequal words asunder!
Let them then each other plunder!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Swear upon your country’s altar,
Never to submit or falter!
To arms! etc.
Till the spoilers are defeated,
Till the Lord’s work is completed.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
Halt not till our Federation
Secures among Earth’s Powers its station!
To arms! etc.
Then at peace, and crowned with glory,
Hear your children tell the story!
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc.
If the loved ones weep in sadness,
Victory soon shall bring them gladness:
To arms! etc.
Exultant pride soon banish sorrow;
Smiles chase tears away to-morrow.
To arms! etc.
Advance the flag of Dixie! etc. |
THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG. BY JOHN W OVERALL. In other days our fathers’ love was loyal, full, and free,
For those they left behind them in the Island of the Sea;
They fought the battles of King George, and toasted him in song,
For them the Right kept proudly down the tyranny of Wrong.
But when the King’s weak, willing slaves laid tax upon the tea,
The Western men rose up and braved the Island of the Sea;
And swore a fearful oath to God, those men of iron might,
That in the end the Wrong should die, and up should go the Right.
The King sent over hireling hosts—Briton, Hessian, Scot—
And swore in turn those Western men, when captured, should be shot;
While Chatham spoke with earnest tongue against the hireling throng,
And mournfully saw the Right go down, and place give to the Wrong.
But God was on the righteous side, and Gideon’s sword was out,
With clash of steel, and rattling drum, and freeman’s thunder-shout;
And crimson torrents drenched the land through that long, stormy fight,
But in the end, hurrah! the Wrong was beaten by the Right!
And when again the foemen came from out the Northern Sea,
To desolate our smiling land and subjugate the free,
Our fathers rushed to drive them back, with rifles keen and long,
And swore a mighty oath, the Right should subjugate the Wrong.
And while the world was looking on, the strife uncertain grew,
But soon aloft rose up our stars amid a field of blue;
For Jackson fought on red Chalmette, and won the glorious fight,
And then the Wrong went down, hurrah! and triumph crowned the Right!
The day has come again, when men who love the beauteous South,
To speak, if needs be, for the Right, though by the cannon’s mouth;
For foes accursed of God and man, with lying speech and song,
Would bind, imprison, hang the Right, and deify the Wrong.
But canting knave of pen and sword, nor sanctimonious fool,
Shall ever win this Southern land, to cripple, bind, and rule;
We’ll muster on each bloody plain, thick as the stars of night,
And, through the help of God, the Wrong shall perish by the Right.
New Orleans True Delta. |
TO MY SOLDIER BROTHER. BY SALLIE E. BALLARD. When softly gathering shades of ev’n
Creep o’er the prairies broad and green,
And countless stars bespangle heav’n,
And fringe the clouds with silv’ry sheen,
My fondest sigh to thee is giv’n,
My lonely wand’ring soldier-boy;
And thoughts of thee
Steal over me
Like ev’ning shades, my soldier boy.
My brother, though thou’rt far away,
And dangers hurtle round thy path,
And battle lightnings o’er thee play,
And thunders peal in awful wrath,
Think, whilst thou’rt in the hot affray,
Thy sister prays for thee, my boy.
If fondest prayer
Can shield thee there,
Sweet angels guard my soldier boy.
Thy proud young heart is beating high
To clash of arms and cannons’ roar;
That firm set lip and flashing eye
Tell how thy heart is brimming o’er.
Be free and live, be free or die!
Be that thy motto now, my boy;
And though thy name’s
Unknown to fame’s
’Tis graven on my heart, my boy. |
THE SOUTH IN ARMS. BY REV. J. H. MARTIN. Oh! see ye not the sight sublime,
Unequaled in all previous time,
Presented in this Southern clime,
The home of chivalry?
A warlike race of freemen stand,
With martial front and sword in hand,
Defenders of their native land,—
The sons of Liberty.
Unawed by numbers, they defy
The tyrant North, nor will they fly,
Resolved to conquer or to die,
And win a glorious name.
Sprung from renowned heroic sires,
Inflamed with patriotic fires,
Their bosoms burn with fierce desires,
They thirst for victory.
’Tis not the love of bloody strife,
The horrid sacrifice of life,
But thoughts of mother, sister, wife,
That stir their manly hearts.
A sense of honor bids them go,
To meet a hireling, ruthless foe,
And deal in wrath the deadly blow
Which vengeance loud demands.
In freedom’s sacred cause they fight,
For Independence, Justice, Right,
And to resist a desperate might.
And by Manassas’ glorious name,
And by Missouri’s fields of fame,
We hear them swear, with one acclaim,
We’ll triumph or we’ll die! |
MELT THE BELLS. BY F. Y. ROCKETT. Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Still the tinkling on the plain,
And transmute the evening chimes
Into war’s resounding rhymes,
That the invaders may be slain
By the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
That for years have called to prayer,
And, instead, the cannon’s roar
Shall resound the valleys o’er,
That the foe may catch despair
From the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Though it cost a tear to part
With the music they have made,
Where the friends we love are laid,
With pale cheek and silent heart,
’Neath the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
Into cannon, vast and grim,
And the foe shall feel the ire
From the heaving lungs of fire,
And we’ll put our trust in Him,
And the bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And when foes no more attack,
And the lightning cloud of war
Shall roll thunderless and far,
We will melt the cannon back
Into bells.
Melt the bells, melt the bells,
And they’ll peal a sweeter chime,
And remind of all the brave
Who have sunk to glory’s grave,
And will sleep through coming time
’Neath the bells.[3] |
TO THE TORIES OF VIRGINIA. “I speak this unto your shame.” In the ages gone by, when Virginia arose
Her honor and truth to maintain,
Her sons round her banner would rally with pride,
Determined to save it from stain.
No heart in those days was so false or so cold,
That it did not exquisitely thrill
With a love and devotion that none would withhold,
Until death the proud bosom should chill.
Was Virginia in danger? Fast, fast at her call,
From the mountains e’en unto the sea,
Came up her brave children their mother to shield,
And to die that she still might be free.
And a coward was he, who, when danger’s dark cloud
Overshadowed Virginia’s fair sky,
Turned a deaf, careless ear, when her summons was heard,
Or refused for her honor to die.
Oh! proud are the mem’ries of days that are past,
And richly the heart thrills whene’er
We think of the brave who, their mother to save,
Have died, as they lived, without fear.
But now, can it be that Virginia’s name
Fails to waken the homage and love
Of e’en one of her sons? Oh! cold, cold must be
The heart that her name will not move.
When she rallies for freedom, for justice, and right,
Will her sons, with a withering sneer,
Revile her, and taunt her with treason and shame,
Or say she is moved by foul fear?
Will they tell her her glories have fled or grown pale?
That she bends to a tyrant in shame?
Will they trample her glorious flag in the dust,
Or load with reproaches her name?
Will they fly from her shores, or desert her in need?
Will Virginians their backs ever turn
On their mother, and fly when the danger is nigh,
And her claim to their fealty spurn?
False, false is the heart that refuses to yield
The love that Virginia doth claim;
And base is the tongue that could utter the lie,
That charges his mother with shame.
A blot on her ’scutcheon! a stain on her name!
Our heart’s blood should wipe it away;
We should die for her honor, and count it a boon
Her mandates to heed and obey.
But never, oh, never, let human tongue say
She is false to her honor or fame!
She is true to her past—to her future she’s true—
And Virginia has never known shame.
Then shame on the dastard, the recreant fool,
That would strike, in the dark, at her now;
That would coldly refuse her fair fame to uphold,
That would basely prove false to his vow.
But no! it can not—it can never be true,
That Virginia claims one single child,
That would ever prove false to his home or his God,
Or be with foul treason defiled.
And the man that could succor her enemies now,
Even though on her soil he were born,
Is so base, so inhuman, so false and so vile,
That Virginia disowns him with scorn!
Richmond Examiner. |
WAR SONG. BY A. B. MEEK, OF MOBILE. Wouldst thou have me love thee, dearest,
With a woman’s proudest heart,
Which shall ever hold thee nearest,
Shrined in its inmost heart?
Listen, then! My country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Leave these groves of rose and myrtle,
Drop the dreamy hand of love!
Like young KÖrner, scorn the turtle
When the eagle screams above!
Dost thou pause? Let dotards dally—
Do thou for thy country fight!
’Neath her noble emblem rally—
“God! our country, and her right!”
Listen! now her trumpet’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Woman’s heart is soft and tender,
But ’tis proud and faithful, too;
Shall she be her land’s defender?
Lover! soldier? up and do!
Seize thy father’s ancient falchion,
Which once flashed as freedom’s star!
Till sweet peace—the bow and halcyon,
Still’d the stormy strife of war!
Listen! now thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Sweet is love in moonlight bowers!
Sweet the altar and the flame!
Sweet is spring-time with her flowers!
Sweeter far the patriot’s name!
Should the God who rules above thee
Doom thee to a soldier’s grave,
Hearts will break, but fame will love thee
Canonized among the brave!
Listen, then, thy country’s calling
On her sons to meet the foe!
Rather would I view thee lying
On the last red field of life,
’Mid thy country’s heroes dying,
Than to be a dastard’s wife. |
SUMTER; A BALLAD OF 1861. BY E. O. MURDEN. ’Twas on the twelfth of April,
Before the break of day,
We heard the guns of Moultrie
Give signal for the fray.
Anon across the waters
There boomed the answering gun,
From North and South came flash on flash—
The battle had begun.
The mortars belched their deadly food,
And spiteful whizzed the balls,
A fearful storm of iron hailed
On Sumter’s doomÈd walls.
We watched the meteor flight of shell,
And saw the lightning flash;
Saw where each fiery missile fell,
And heard the sullen crash.
The morn was dark and cloudy,
Yet, till the sun arose,
No answer to our gallant boys
Came booming from our foes.
Then through the dark and murky clouds
The morning sunlight came,
And forth from Sumter’s frowning walls
Burst sudden sheets of flame.
The shot and shell flew thick and fast,
The war-dogs howling spoke,
And thundering came their angry roar,
Through wreathing clouds of smoke.
Again to fight for liberty,
Our gallant sons had come,
They smiled when came the bugle call,
And laughed when tapped the drum.
From cotton- and from corn-field,
From desk and forum too,
From work-bench and from anvil, came
Our gallant boys and true.
A hireling band had come to awe,
Our chains to rivet fast;
Yon lofty pile scowls on our homes,
Seaward the hostile mast.
But gallant freemen man our guns—
No mercenary host,
Who barter for their honor’s price,
And of their baseness boast.
Now came our stately matrons,
And maidens too by scores;
Oh! Carolina’s beauty shone
Like love-lights on her shores.
See yonder, anxious gazing,
Alone a matron stands,
The tear-drop glistening on each lid,
And tightly clasped her hands.
For there, exposed to deadly fire,
Her husband and her son—
“Father,” she spake, and heavenward looked,
“Father, thy will be done.”
See yonder group of maidens,
No joyous laughter now,
For cares lie heavy on each heart
And cloud each anxious brow:
For brothers dear, and lovers fond,
Are there amid the strife;
Tearful the sister’s anxious gaze—
Pallid the promised wife.
Yet breathed no heart one thought of fear,
Prompt at their country’s call,
They yielded forth their dearest hopes,
And gave to honor all!
Now comes a message from below—
Oh quick the tidings tell—
“At Moultrie and Fort Johnson, too,
And Morris, all are well!”
Then mark the joyous brightening;
See how each bosom swells;
That friends and loved ones all are safe,
Each to the other tells.
All day the shot flew thick and fast,
All night the cannon roared,
While wreathed in smoke stern Sumter stood,
And vengeful answer poured.
Again the sun rose, bright and clear,
’Twas on the thirteenth day,
While, lo! at prudent distance moored
Five hostile vessels lay.
With choicest abolition crews—
The bravest of their brave—
They’d come to pull our Crescent down
And dig Secession’s grave.
See, see, how Sumter’s banner trails,
They’re signaling for aid,
See you no boats of armed men?
Is yet no movement made?
Now densest smoke and lurid flames
Burst out o’er Sumter’s walls;
“The fort’s on fire,” ’s the cry;
Again for aid he calls.
See you no boats or vessels yet?
Dare they not risk one shot,
To make report grandiloquent
Of aid they rendered not?
Nor boat nor vessel leaves the fleet—
“Let the old Major burn”—
We’ll boast of that we would have done,
If but—on our return.
Go back, go back ye cravens,
Go back the way ye came;
Ye gallant, would be, men-of-war,
Go! to your country’s shame.
’Mid fiery storm of shot and shell,
’Mid smoke and roaring flame,
See how Kentucky’s gallant son
Does honor to her name!
See how he answers gun for gun—
Hurrah! his flag is down!
The white! the white! Oh see it wave!
Is echoed all around.
Now ring the bells a joyous peal,
And rend with shouts the air,
We’ve torn the hated banner down,
And placed the Crescent there.
All honor to our gallant boys,
Bring forth the roll of fame,
And there in glowing lines inscribe
Each patriot hero’s name.
Spread, spread the tidings far and wide,
Ye winds take up the cry:
“Our soil’s redeemed from hateful yoke,
We’ll keep it pure or die.” |
REBELS. Rebels! ’tis a holy name!
The name our fathers bore,
When battling in the cause of Right,
Against the tyrant in his might,
In the dark days of yore.
Rebels! ’tis our family name!
Our father, Washington,
Was the arch-rebel in the fight,
And gave the name to us—a right
Of father unto son.
Rebels! ’tis our given name!
Our mother, Liberty,
Received the title with her fame,
In days of grief, of fear, and shame,
When at her breast were we.
Rebels! ’tis our sealÈd name!
A baptism of blood!
The war—aye, and the din of strife—
The fearful contest, life for life—
The mingled crimson flood.
Rebels! ’tis a patriot’s name!
In struggles it was given;
We bore it then when tyrants raved,
And through their curses ’twas engraved
On the doomsday-book of heaven.
Rebels! ’tis our fighting name!
For peace rules o’er the land,
Until they speak of craven woe—
Until our rights receive a blow,
From foe’s or brother’s hand.
Rebels! ’tis our dying name!
For, although life is dear,
Yet, freemen born and freemen bred,
We’d rather live as freemen dead,
Than live in slavish fear.
Then call us rebels, if you will—
We glory in the name;
For bending under unjust laws,
And swearing faith to an unjust cause,
We count a greater shame.
Atlanta Confederacy. |
THE HEART OF LOUISIANA. BY HARRIET STANTON. Oh! let me weep, while o’er our land
Vile discord strides, with sullen brow,
And drags to earth, with ruthless hand,
The flag no tyrant’s power could bow!
Trailed in the dust, inglorious laid,
While one by one her stars retire,
And pride and power pursue the raid,
That bids our liberty expire.
Aye, let me weep! for surely Heaven
In anger views the unholy strife;
And angels weep that thus is riven
The tie that gave to Freedom life.
I can not shout—I will not sing
Loud pÆans o’er a severed tie;
And, draped in woe, in tears I fling
Our State’s new flag to greet the sky.
I can but choose, while senseless zeal
And lawless hate are clothed with power,
The bitter cup; but still I feel
The sadness of this parting hour!
I know that thousand hearts will bleed
While loud huzzas the welkin rend;
The thoughtless crowd will shout, Secede!
But ah! will this the conflict end?
Oh! let me weep and prostrate lie
Low at the footstool of my God;
I can not breathe one note of joy,
While yet I feel His chastening rod.
Sure, we have as a nation sinned—
Let every heart its folly own,
And sackcloth, as a girdle, bind,
And mourn our glorious Union gone!
Sisters, farewell! You know not half
The pain your pride, injustice, give;
You spurn our cause, and lightly laugh,
And hope no more the wrong shall live.
New Orleans Delta. |
SOUTHERN SONG OF FREEDOM. Air—“The Minstrel’s Return.” A nation has sprung into life
Beneath the bright Cross of the South;
And now a loud call to the strife
Rings out from the shrill bugle’s mouth.
They gather from morass and mountain,
They gather from prairie and mart,
To drink, at young Liberty’s fountain,
The nectar that kindles the heart.
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty!
Our flag, with its cluster of stars,
Firm fixed in a field of pure blue,
All shining through red and white bars,
Now gallantly flutters in view.
The stalwart and brave round it rally,
They press to their lips every fold,
While the hymn swells from hill and from valley,
“Be, God, with our Volunteers bold.”
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.
The invaders rush down from the North,
Our borders are black with their hordes;
Like wolves for their victims they flock,
While whetting their knives and their swords.
Their watchword is “Booty and Beauty,”
Their aim is to steal as they go;
But Southrons act up to your duty,
And lay the foul miscreants low.
Then, hail to the land of the pine! etc.
The God of our fathers looks down
And blesses the cause of the just;
His smile will the patriot crown
Who tramples his chains in the dust.
March, march Southrons! shoulder to shoulder,
One heart-throb, one shout for the cause;
Remember—the world’s a beholder,
And your bayonets are fixed at your doors!
Then, hail to the land of the pine!
The home of the noble and free;
A palmetto wreath we’ll entwine
Round the altar of young Liberty.
J. H. H. | |
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